


These Days are Ashes and Wine

by FlameBlownWhiter



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Cannon and Non-Canon Scenes, Civil War hasn't happened yet, First Time, If I were to write it, M/M, Minor Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, Offscreen Tony/Steve, POV Bucky Barnes, Possible Spoilers, True Love, but - Freeform, it might happen like this, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlameBlownWhiter/pseuds/FlameBlownWhiter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers.<br/>There are only a few days that define us and who we are, these are the days of ashes and wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Days are Ashes and Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kirenamuln](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirenamuln/gifts).



> Trigger Warning: Major Character Death, Torture

**The Last Day**

Steve’s blood sprayed bright and gleaming in the bright summer sun. The bullet, Bucky saw, went clean through the skull – brain matter following its path.

Bucky could hear a dull shrill siren – the alarm warning the camp of attack – but even that was far off. He couldn’t hear anything else as shock and panic took over his system – not the spray of bullets, nor the sounds of the other men, nor the boom of bombs colliding near him. Nothing but the slick sound of Steve’s body crumpling to the ground in devastating slow motion.

Bucky ran, releasing his hands to drop his gun, weightless from the shock, his knees jarring painfully against the hard ground as he dove for Steve. His left hand hit the cold marble with a metallic shriek.

That’s when he realized: there was no war. The war was long over. They were on the steps of the Capitol Building. Captain America was being brought in, arrested as a traitor, handcuffed, and made helpless by the country he had fought his entire life to protect. And all around him was hot warm blood and the ever cooling flesh of Steve Rogers.

He leaned down to take off the mask, to look into Steve’s eyes unfettered. They were open, but lifeless. He could still hear the damn camp siren. Bucky had no idea where it was coming from, ‘til he realized, with a choked start, the siren was a scream and it was coming from him.

**Brooklyn, 1940**

They were sitting on Steve’s old twin mattress, no sheets, all of Steve’s things had already been packed and moved to the Barnes’ apartment three streets over. Steve’s mother had recently died and he couldn’t afford the place on his own, so when Bucky had offered him a place with them, he couldn’t refuse – though he did try.

Bucky was smoking, something he had started to pick up lately, and was unusually quiet – staring after the cigarette smoke as it trailed towards the ceiling.

“I’m going to miss it here.” Surprisingly, the comment came from Bucky. He took another drag on his cigarette and released the smoke slowly between them. “A lot of good memories.”

And there were. Bucky’s family had lived in the same building growing up, they’d gone from boys to men in this bedroom. But Bucky’s father had done well, and towards the end of school was able to move the family to a brownstone a few blocks away.

Steve smiled, his thin face brightening as he did. “Yeah.” He reached over to grab the end of the cigarette, wanting to taste the burn of the tobacco on his tongue, to luxuriate as Bucky did in his habit.

“Oh no, buddy boy.” Bucky said, moving the cig away from Steve, pulling one last drag and snuffing it out on the windowsill. Blowing the smoke out and away from Steve, he chuckled at Steve’s sour expression, “You coughed like a coal miner the last time.”

“So?”

“So? I don’t need your Mom coming back from the grave to give me a whooping – that’s so.” Steve looked away, his pride hurt a little.

“You are always protecting me.” Steve looked back at Bucky his blue eyes steel with determination. “I can take care of myself.”

He didn’t know what made him choose to do it then. He would never be sure – if it was the look in Steve’s eyes, or the unbreakable determination in his voice, or the moment of nostalgia mixed with grief – or maybe it was all of that and more.

Bucky reached out with his now free hand and cradled the back of Steve’s skull, pulling him closer for a firm kiss. Steve’s lips were chapped, and burned against his like smoking coals.

It only lasted a moment, he didn’t dare for more.

When he pulled back, Steve’s features were soft, but curious.

Bucky rested his forehead against Steve’s, closing his eyes, and softly moving his fingers through his friend’s hair. “I know you can, pal. I know you can.”

 _But let me protect you, while I can_ was left unsaid.

**Germany, 1944**

Heaven knows it wasn’t how he had pictured their first time. For one, in his fantasies Steve had been much smaller and Bucky was the one coming back from war a hero. In the glee of his return, he always saw himself throwing caution to the wind, making a grand declaration, scooping Steve up and taking him to bed. 

The actual events could not be more different. For one, Steve was not small anymore. And secondly, Steve had come for him, saved him, Steve was the big damn hero. Not that Bucky was complaining, he always knew Steve would come for him if he could, and he did. 

And the body, the _body_. Bucky would be lying if he said it didn’t appeal to him, but after years of yearning for his small, but painfully noble friend, he found he missed the compact stature of the old Steve Rogers. 

It was surreal to _finally_ be able to touch Steve, hear Steve’s hitched moans, and to feel a body completely foreign to him under his fingertips. He used to know everything about Steve Rogers - every scar, every sharp rib, but that had all been taken away and replaced by smooth perfect skin and hard strong muscle. 

Not that he wasn’t enjoying _learning._

Steve’s abs contracted beautifully, his head strained back, as Bucky’s lips and tongue moved down his body. Bucky rubbed Steve through his briefs quickly, just to say hello, before removing them completely. This part of Steve, at least had remained unchanged. 

Steve’s cock, full and bright with blood, stood at attention. He’d seen it before, boys will be boys after all, but he’d never gotten this close - never had the opportunity to enjoy the view. Steve bucked up, wordlessly demanded contact. 

“Steve,” Bucky sighed breathing in his musk and putting one hand around the base of his cock. “Did any of those USO girls do this for you?” 

“No.” He said, deep and strained, making Bucky smile. “Bucky, c’mon.” 

“Has anyone ever touched you like this? Anyone ever lick you? Held you? Made you come?” Steve moaned loudly, completely uncaring about who was around them. 

“Bucky,” Steve said, sitting up and staring down at him. Clear, sincere, blue eyes locked onto his, “no. No one, no one ever.” He shrugged then, and Bucky knew that Steve was suddenly uncertain, afraid that Bucky would reject him. “Just you.” 

“Good,” he said, leaning forward, taking the plush lower lip of Steve’s mouth into his, licking up until Steve surrendered. They kissed until Steve’s breaths came in small puffs of air and his friend’s body went slack against his. Bucky leaned back till they were sharing the same air, their mouths millimeters apart in the dark, and whispered. “That’s how I always imagined it.” 

**Germany, 1945**

The air whipped about him sharp as daggers. At first, Bucky could hear Steve calling his name, but eventually the winds had become too harsh and Bucky had fallen too far. For once all was quiet in Bucky’s head; funny how the surety of death can clear a man’s mind. 

He could see the massive wasteland of snow and rock below him get closer and he closed his eyes. _Steve_ , he thought, and then everything went black. 

+++

He opened his eyes to pain, and cold, and the rough feel of ice and gravel before surrendering to oblivion.

+++

This time when he opened his eyes, the lights were artificially bright and the pain chemically numbed. Hydra had found him, barely alive at the bottom of the ravine. They told him he was going to be their weapon. They told him that he would win the war for them.

If he could, he would have laughed. _Steve,_ he thought, _Steve will save me._

Eventually, once they knew he was not going to die, they took him off the painkillers. They modified him, without a drop of anesthesia, burning and fusing him with metal and wires till his nerves burned with it. 

The pain was nothing though, nothing, in comparison to electric shock treatment. They smiled as he screamed, and he did scream, it was the only way he could keep from passing out. They told him that this is how they would mold him, shape him, into their Winter Soldier. 

One day Zola was removing the internal probes, with a slick pop and familiar chafe against burnt skin, when he decided physical pain wasn’t enough. 

“He’s dead, you know.” Zola said sneering, placing the long metal probes on the surgical table. Bucky didn’t understand. He internalized a moan, clenching his rectal muscles and swallowing to relieve the pain. “Captain America, I mean, your Captain. He --” At this, Zola whistled and made a motion like a crash with his hand. “Into the Arctic.” 

His heart felt trapped in a vise, but he kept his face slack, giving away nothing. 

Zola sniffed, his face scowling in displeasure. “No one is coming to save you.” 

It took him a minute to speak, swallowing and loosening up his throat, so long that Zola had moved on to other experiments in the room, ignoring Bucky’s ever-silent presence. 

At first nothing came out but a croaking gasp, but it was enough to catch Zola’s attention. 

He smiled, a disingenuous snake-like line crossing his face. “Yes, Mr. Barnes, have something to say?” 

“You lie.” Two words, but his broken voice said them with conviction. 

“Do I?” Zolar said, smiling, his eyebrow raised mockingly. 

“He’ll come,” Bucky wheezed. “He’ll come for me.” 

“Well, that would be an interesting trick.” Zolar said, picking up his pad and jotting a few notes as he left the room. “It won’t matter for much longer, anyhow.” 

For the first time in days he tested his restraints, but found them as tight and unmoving as they were on his first day. He breathed slowly, strengthening his resolve: Zola was lying, Steve was coming. They were just trying to break him. 

And he believed that, for months, until Bucky Barnes was made to forget.

**Washington DC, 2014**

The oxygen mask was removed and his body startled into sudden consciousness. His muscles burned, the ever present pain in his arm returned, and the pressure on his brain makes him see spots. 

When the table tilted upward 90 degrees, placing him in a standing position, the bile in his stomach retched out of him and it took him a minute, spitting up dry air and mucus, before he was able to breath. The scientists stared and waited for him to lift his head.

Someone in a coat grabbed his chin and forced his mouth open for water, letting him spit to clear his throat, before giving him a squirt to swallow. The water running down his jugular was like an awakening. There was a mission, he was needed, it was time. 

+++

The Shield felt strong in his hands, stronger than his arm. The soldier, for clearly he was trained, pursued him along the rooftop. The soldier was fast, but he was faster.

He completed his mission and returned to base. They told him to sleep in a cell instead of a containment unit, there was still more work to be done.

+++

This time the mission was The Soldier - Steve Rogers - and The Woman, Natasha Romanov. He had a team and was prepared. But they proved more creative than their files had led him to anticipate. Even in close quarters, The Soldier was able to deflect his attacks. 

His blood pumped excitedly, thrilled to have a challenge. All he could hear were the sounds of battle, of the life he was born for, and for a moment everything was perfect. The pain in his arm was gone and there was only this moment - this fight. 

The Soldier ruined that with one word - “Bucky?”

It sounded familiar, the man’s voice sounded familiar. It wasn’t a part of this mission, but he had to know. “Who the hell is Bucky?” 

He ran before he could hear the answer. The mission came first. 

+++

They tied him down to the table and he took the bit of cloth between his lips willingly, like a good soldier, the perfect soldier. They were going to hurt him again. They were going to stick their probes up inside of him, puts their pads against his skin, and they were going to make him clean. He had learned to love the pain, to anticipate the wipe. 

After all, he was a weapon and weapons must be polished, must be made new again. 

The only problem was - he didn’t want to forget. 

When the pain came, he fought it. Lightning shot from the innocuous-looking pads against his skin and forced his body to act against him. His muscles seized painfully, bunching up in coils and pulling tight. His chest felt ready to collapse as he held in air, unnaturally, against protocol, in his act of defiance. 

When they saw he wouldn’t submit, they increased the voltage and for a moment his heart stopped before galloping back and pounding like it was about to explode. Warm blood dripped from his nose and down his lips, he wouldn’t have felt it except for the copper taste in his mouth. Then they turned on the internal probe and his physical self surrendered. 

They buffed him, polished him, and stuck him back in his fleshy sheath - almost like new.

But no matter what drugs they gave him, no matter how many bolts of electricity, he couldn’t forget - but he was made to not care.

+++

“I’m with you, till the end of the line,” said the man with the clear blue eyes, and Bucky understood that this should _mean_ something to him. That Steve Rogers should _mean_ something to him. 

The blood on Steve’s face was clotting and his eye was swollen shut. His eyes even brighter against the burning wreckage and crystal sky. And for a moment, something inside of Bucky - _wants_. 

Then Steve fell. 

The Soldier fell, and Bucky didn’t call out Steve’s name, but he thought it. And he couldn’t help but start to feel cold, bitterly cold, like the Arctic. The glass bottom of the ship was breaking apart around him and he knew the mission. He knew that he failed - and he’d _never_ failed - but he didn’t care. All he could think about was Steve Rogers, and his friend, Bucky.

He jumped. 

 

**Brooklyn, 2016**

Bucky knew he’d end up back here. He was tired. Tired of being chased and tired of avoiding Steve and his flying man.

The streets smelled different, but the brownstone he moved Steve into is still there. Though now, it is no longer a home, it’s some sort of multi-level coffee shop and bike store that the young and thin of this era seem to enjoy. 

A kid ran down the street and into him, clipping his arm. The boy gave him a sour look as he rubbed his shoulder and shuffled away. Bucky turned down a side street and, exiting, turned left to face the midrise apartment buildings that were the backdrop of his youth. 

Steeling himself, he slipped along the street and into the small maintenance alley in the back, grabbed the ladder of the fire escape and started to climb. 

That is where Sam Wilson found him. Smoking on the fire escape, outside the window of Steve’s former bedroom. 

“Why do I get the feeling that me finding you here has nothing to do with how wonderful of a tracker I am?” 

Bucky smiled, cracking his stoic reserve, licking his lips - searching for the lingering taste of tobacco. “So,” Bucky croaked, stretching his unused voice and snubbing out his cigarette, “you are smarter than you look.” 

Sam Wilson laughed like he was holding back, trying not to show how amused he was. “Man, this is not how I thought this would go.” He said shaking his head and sitting next to Bucky on the step. 

Bucky shrugged and regretted snubbing out his cigarette; he needed to do something with his hands. He realized he was nervous. 

“I don’t know what to say to him.” 

Sam gave him a sideways glance, his normally expressive mouth a straight line, as he studied Bucky. He had never officially met Sam Wilson, but after two years of gathering intelligence, listening to his conversations with Steve, and watching him from a distance he felt he knew him. He imagined Sam felt the same way about him. 

Sam sighed and touched his ear, turning off his Avengers-issued communicator.

“I don’t think you need to say anything.”

Bucky swallowed. “Steve’s the forgiving type.” 

Sam shook his head. “He never forgave you. He doesn’t think you need forgiveness.” Sam’s voice was a little pained. 

Bucky laughed a shallow, broken laugh. He knew Sam was telling the truth, knew from overhearing their conversations that Sam did not agree with Steve’s opinions of Bucky. Bucky could empathize; he didn’t agree either. 

“Are you still sleeping with him?” Sam’s eyes opened wide like an owl’s, shocked by the question. It wasn’t polite, it wasn’t what normal people would ask, but Bucky had to know. Bucky reached for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, hitting it twice he set one free from the pack.

“No.” 

Bucky wasn’t looking at Wilson, but he sounded like someone who was telling an unfortunate truth. That too he could empathize with - he wouldn’t want to leave Steve’s bed either. 

“Good,” he said, placing the cigarette between his lips. He lit up with a flick of a match against his metal hand and took a long drag. 

 

**New York City, 2016  
6 Months Later**

“I am not kidding! This is not a request, Barnes, as far as you are concerned, this is an order.” 

Bucky swung around. His water glass, recently filled with ice, collided with his arm and flew from the counter and into the tiled kitchen wall. The crash was satisfyingly louder than the reporter still reading the news in the background. “You can’t order me around! I’m not one of your Avengers!” 

“Well, that we agree on.” 

Bucky wanted to punch Steve in his smug, gorgeous face, but when he thought about it, he’d rather be hitting Tony. 

“Give me one good reason, Rogers, one good reason why I shouldn’t go over to that tower and slit. His. Throat.” 

“Because that isn’t how we do things,” Steve said, his eyes gentle but firm; commanding even in a heather grey tank and jeans. “And I am asking you not to.” 

“He declared war on you!” 

“Yes, he did.” 

“He’s made you a fugitive. _You! Captain Stars and Stripes!_ ”

“I understand what he did.” 

Bucky paced the floor, angrily, and not taking a care for the ice and glass against his bare feet. A sliver slipped into his foot, about an inch deep, sending Bucky to the floor in sudden pain. “Shit! Fuck!” 

Steve ran around the counter and joined him on the floor, cradling his foot. “You are such an idiot, Barnes.” 

They were quiet after that, while Steve gingerly slid out the glass karambit from his arch. He was already healing, but there was still plenty of blood. The streams ran like little red Niles as they mixed with the melting ice on the floor, turning into small diluted pink puddles on white tile. 

Steve cleaned him up and gently bandaged his foot with all the efficient skill of a field medic. “Bucky -” Steve started, then stopped. “What is this about? Do you, do you not…” Steve forced himself to look him in the eye. Steve’s baby blues bore into him with a mix of so many emotions that he couldn’t possibly name them all, but he knew the one at the forefront of Steve’s thoughts: loss. “If you don’t want to fight this fight with me, I’ll understand. You’ve sacrificed enough -” 

Bucky didn’t let Steve finish. He grabbed Steve’s wrist and pulled Steve towards him, bending down to kiss him. “Now who’s being an idiot?” 

It wasn’t their first kiss since he’d gotten back, but it wasn’t their hundredth either. It still felt new, whatever it was that was happening between them, or restarting between them. They had taken it slow - maybe it was time to show Steve he wasn’t that fragile. 

Bucky went to deepen the kiss, intent on doing more, when Steve pulled away. “We’ve been in tougher spots than this, it’s an ideological disagreement. We’ll fight, we’ll win, like we always do. What has you so angry?” 

Steve’s eyes were always beacons, searching for the truth in every situation, and Bucky could never withhold anything from Steve. “I saw you with him.” 

“What?” Steve said, a confused look on his face. 

“When I first got here, I saw you, kissing.” 

Steve reddened, remembering. The had looked so comfortable with each other, as if they had done it a hundred times. Tony on his toes, his hand in Steve’s blonde hair, and Steve - Steve had been fierce with wanting. He had held onto Tony’s arms, keeping him close. They had looked beautiful together.

“We were just saying goodbye, Bucky. It was just a goodbye.” He sounded small. 

“Heck of a goodbye.” Bucky said, challengingly. 

“Yes it was.” Steve smiled and shrugged. “What do you want from me Buck? I thought you were dead, then _you_ left me on that shore, and led me and my team on a goose chase for two years. I didn’t even know if I would ever get _you_ back or how much of you there was left.” Steve ran his finger along Bucky’s hairline and down his neck, causing his breath to hitch in a way that had little to do with their conversation. “I always had hope though.” 

“I hate him.” 

“Buck - “ Steve said, sighing. 

“Not because he had you.” Bucky’s ocean blue eyes held on to Steve’s. “Not that it makes me happy -” He tilted his head and gave a half shrug, his lips unable to hold off a smile as he reached out and rested his hand on Steve’s chest, over his heart. “But I know, no one can ever have you like I did.” He can practically feel Steve’s skin tingle under his. “I hate him, because he’s a disloyal pig. He doesn’t care about what you went for, what we went through -” Steve’s hand free hand ran down Bucky’s metal arm, leaving ghost-like feeling in its wake. 

“He never _had_ me.” Steve said calmly, stretching the word to give it meaning. 

Bucky’s brow creased, “But - “ 

“We were together, but like you said, no one can ever have me like you do.” Steve said, changing only one word, but Bucky heard the message loud and clear. “No one ever has, Buck.” 

“Never?” 

Steve leaned forward, his hand lifting to cover the one Bucky had placed on his chest. Their fingers curling around each others. “Never.” 

This time Steve pulled Bucky closer, grabbing him by the shirt with the hand he had been cradling Bucky’s with against his chest. Knocked off balance, Bucky was forced to throw out a hand for support. A small piece of glass bit into his palm, drawing blood, and blending pain with the pleasure of Steve’s tongue. 

When Steve finally let him up to breathe, he steadied himself, and ran his thumb along the plane of Steve’s cheek, leaving behind a thick red line under one crystal blue eye. To Bucky it looked like war paint.

**2017, Washington DC  
The Final Day**

Summer in DC doesn’t get enough credit for how truly miserable it is. The district in the summer is hot and muggy and the marble of the buildings does nothing to cool the air around them. Not that Bucky Barnes noticed; nothing could have made today more miserable for Bucky. Steve, his painfully noble _everything_ was being brought in front of Congress for acts of treason against the United States of America. 

He had been forced to turn himself in - to protect the rest of them. It was part of the deal: Steve’s Secret Avengers had to be registered, but they would live, and they would be free to go. All of them were in attendance, but so was Tony’s team, guarding Cap as they paraded him up the steps in his full costume sans Shield. Bucky guessed they were worried he and the team might try something; well, points to home team, they were right. 

Steve, unsurprisingly, walked with his head up like it was a 70 degree day and he was out on the Mall for a stroll. Bucky readied the signal, waiting for Steve to clear the middle of the veranda and get closer to the pillars of the Capitol building, when it happened. 

Steve’s blood sprayed bright and gleaming in the bright summer sun. The bullet, Bucky saw, went clean through the skull – brain matter following its path.

For a moment he forgot where he was as he watched Steve’s body slump to the ground in devastating slow motion. He thought briefly that it was war time, that this was the work of Hydra and the Nazis. He ran and slid, his knees colliding with the marble next to Steve with a bone breaking crunch. 

It was too late. He cradled Steve’s head, blood and grey matter covering his right hand. As all around him the hot warm blood spread, creating a twisted halo around the head of Steve Rogers.

He leaned down to take off the mask, to look into Steve’s eyes unfettered. They were lifeless, but open. He was screaming and couldn’t seem to make himself stop. He was rabid, snapping at the faceless EMTs who tried to approach. “Don’t touch him!” He snarled, and after that, they left him alone. He held his lover against him, rocking back and forth, until Sam Wilson came. 

“I won’t leave him, Sam. Not again.” Bucky said, his voice hoarse and strained. His eyes unmoving from Steve’s ever fading ones. 

“I know,” Sam said gently, “let’s go together.” Sam grabbed the legs of his fallen friend and Bucky nodded, gently carrying the body to the ambulance. The EMTs made room for both Sam and Bucky in the back as they gingerly laid Steve down, finally safe. Suddenly, the adrenaline left his body and Bucky shook with exhaustion and shock. Everything felt both too real and very far away, like his skin was rejecting reality. 

Sam wrapped a warm blanket around his shoulder and held him tight across the shoulders. It wasn’t until the doors shut and they placed a white sheet over Steve that Bucky broke down and cried.


End file.
